AN: Thanks to Laurie for her kind unsigned review, and to all the people who reassured us that the dialect was coming over well, and not OTT!

Slainthe Mhath

Chapter 4

Gibbs was as capable as anyone of appreciating Tony's humour, so it was just unfortunate for the younger man that his boss was more focussed on what was going on inside his head than out of it. He knew how just about how long DiNozzo was able to stay under water, and was just reaching the borderline frantic level on a scale where couldn't-care-less was one and beyond desperate was ten, when Tony's head broke the surface. There'd been some inexplicable turbulence moments before, that had worried him – was a surge of current carrying his agent and the boy under the boats?

Now, seeing that his SFA was safe and his charge alive, Gibbs went straight back to the anger setting he'd been on previously; anger at the poor efforts of people who had young lives in their care, anger at the callous and self-centred attitudes of some of those young people, and the downright, weaselling dishonesty of people who preyed on them.

Well, that was at the forefront of his mind of course, and it was all he'd acknowledge, but he was well aware of what was seething away in the darker corners, that he was spending his whole waking life trying not to think about. He pointed to where the tender and its pilot, plus Ducky, were approaching cautiously, and didn't bother to speak because he didn't think he'd be heard above the rapidly increasing, excited buzz of the cadets.

Unfortunately that, the lack of reaction to his attempt at humour, and the dark, furious expression on Gibbs' face, just went to reinforce Tony's feeling that he'd about outlived his usefulness on the Marine's team. He refused to let his heart sink to the bottom of the loch, and concentrated on the boy he was holding up, who was beginning to splutter and struggle. By the time the little boat came alongside him, he was running out of steam and his arm was aching too much to deal with in his usual way, by ignoring the problem. And by the time the combined efforts of himself, Ducky and the young ensign piloting the tender had got a spluttering Des into the bottom of it, he'd about had it.

To conceal how he was feeling, he said, "Concentrate on him, Ducky... just give me a tow into shallow water, huh?"

The ME shot him a look, but saw nothing but the innocent making of a practical suggestion. The ensign said, "Hang on here at the side, Sir, stay away from the propeller," and moved back to her controls at the rear. "I'll go really slowly," she called. "Let go as soon as you feel land under you and I'll cut the engine." He gave her a grateful, green-eyed smile that she took with her to her dreams that night.

The ensign was as good as her word, and in a very short time, Tony found himself on his hands and knees in the shallows, the boat having turned away towards the jetty. After depositing Ducky and a conscious, hunched and chastened Des on the planking, she started the engine again and headed towards the boat at speed. Clearly, more people wished to come ashore – Tony gave it five minutes before Gibbs was here chewing him out. He staggered to his feet, churning up more peaty silt, stepped on a rather sharp rock and nearly fell over again, but managed to avoid making a complete idiot of himself. Hearing the splashing, Ducky looked over his shoulder and said sternly, "Anthony, do not even think about disappearing somewhere before I've had a look at you."

"Sure, Ducky." Tony sighed, and trudged wetly across to the nearest picnic table. He sat down, breathing hard, peeled off his soaking tee with difficulty as it seemed determined to cling to him, and tried to wring it out. With one good hand and an equally soaking canvas splint, it wasn't easy. It hurt; he gasped and smothered a yelp, which didn't help with his efforts to get his breath back. His chest heaved with the effort to draw breath, and rivulets of dank water ran down from his hair and over his bare shoulders. OK, forget the tee. Jeans? No way, they were staying on. Socks, then... he could get them off, and wring them out one-handed. Why would he want to? He wasn't going to put them on again...

His thinking was slow and woolly... he couldn't be suffering from shock, he had nothing to be shocked about. He hadn't been in the water long enough to have hypothermia... it was early afternoon, wasn't it? The sun was still quite high, and warm... he squinted at his watch, smiling inanely that the manufacturer's claims about waterproofing seemed to be genuine...

He looked at the car park, or whatever they called them here... the official vehicle they'd been lent at RAF Lossiemouth when they'd disembarked from the Starlifter stood over on the other side. Was he macho enough to walk across there, across the gravel, in his bare feet? Maybe he couldn't get at his bag; maybe the trunk was locked anyway; Gibbs had the keys... he began to stand up, resigned to trying. How foolish would he look, limping across the sharp stones in nothing but a pair of wringing wet jeans? Hell, he didn't care.

A quiet voice beside him said, "Stay there, Tony, I'll get it," and a gentle but irresistible pressure on his shoulders sat him down again.

He blinked in astonishment at Tim, who was looking down at him with a 'don't mess with me' expression worthy of Ducky himself. "Kay," he said meekly. It wasn't shock, he realised as his eyes stung suddenly. It wasn't hypothermia. He hadn't slept since way before Vance had ordered them home to rest; he was just too tired to make even a token resistance. He wondered how Tim was still going. Gibbs... well, he didn't believe in sleep.

Something descended round his shoulders; a dull, fatigues coloured towel, courtesy of the US Navy; and his precious leather jacket appeared on the bench beside him. And... his shoes. Oh, blessed, brother McGee! Tony opened his mouth to say thanks, but Tim was half-way to the car.

A few moments later, the Omega purred to a halt beside him. He watched idly as Tim brought his tote bag out of the trunk – and then puzzled as the younger agent put it in the rear of the car.

"I... thought you'd just bring the bag..."

Tim sat down on the bench beside him. "Where are you going to change, then? You can't go flashing at all those nice young cadet girls..."

"Ah."

Tim seized his good arm and pulled it over his shoulder. "Come on. I'll stick you in the car and leave you to it."

"Thanks, McModesty." Tim snorted. "Seriously, thanks. Er... Gibbs..."

"Is still on the boat – I think he's eating three skippers – raw." Good... they deserve it...maybe he'll have chewed on enough to keep him happy by the time he gets to me... hell, I deserve it too...

Tim was as good as his word; after unzipping his bag for him, he left Tony to sort himself out, and ambled away. The SFA watched him go with regret; this was not going to be easy... but no way on earth was he going to ask anyone for help dressing himself. He took a quick look round, here was no-one about but he still hid behind the open door to drop jeans and shorts all at once, then dived into the privacy of the car, scrubbing himself all over with the rough towel. That took a lot of effort; the wet cast was unpleasant, and he'd overdone it with the arm... he just wanted to sleep...

"Where is Anthony? I distinctly told him not to disappear –"

"It's OK, Ducky, he's in the car..."

"What? He thinks he's going to drive away? I won't –"

The diatribe moved off across the grass with Ducky; Tim didn't try to set him right, by the time he'd explained he'd be there... which was how when the ME wrenched the door open with an exasperated "Anthony..." he found the driver's seat empty, and a stark, sphericals naked agent curled up dozing in the rear. "Oh, dear boy..." Ducky hadn't the heart to scold.

NCISNCISNCIS

A lot had happened in an hour... The Navy had taken charge of Desi, who would be flown home to face whatever music there might be. Ducky had agreed there was no bruising found during Kyle's autopsy to suggest that he'd been pushed; nobody was sure if an actual crime had been committed, or simply reprehensible behaviour, as the ME put it. It wasn't their problem anymore.

Ducky had taken charge of Tony, chivvying him, floppy and compliant, into warm clothes, strapping his arm since the splint needed to be cleaned and dried, and giving the all-clear to his eternally suspect lungs. Gibbs, coming ashore finally, had found Tim, with a new round of hot drinks, sleeping head down on a picnic table.

Keith Gregg had taken charge of accommodation, booking them into rooms that departing wedding guests had just vacated at a small hotel near his home at Invermoriston. Ducky of course remained at his godson's house.

Vance had taken charge of their return journey, by commercial flight, "From Glasgow. When we can book you one. The RAF say you can keep the car until we know when that is, and they'll drop off a driver to take you to the airport. When? Couldn't say. You actually complaining about time off, Gibbs?"

The Vauxhall muscle car was chugging down to Invermoriston, with Ducky at the wheel. "You're tired, Jethro, and I'm far more used to driving on the left than you are." To his amazement, Gibbs had agreed. In the back, the two younger agents slumped against each other, finally asleep, even if only for a short time.

Gibbs turned in his seat and looked at them with weary pride. "They did good, Ducky. Even with everything that's been going on, they did good."

"You should tell them."

"I will... DiNozzo thought he was going to get yelled at... beats me."

Ducky's eyes flicked in the rear view mirror to the two sleeping men for a moment, and he sighed. "They are gallant, Jethro. Both of them. Gallant way beyond the most that should be required of them. And they'd do anything for you."

The last sentence was delivered with heavy emphasis, and now it was Gibbs who sighed. "I get it Ducky. I do. You think I should be doing more for them."

"In a nutshell, yes. It'd benefit you, too. A hot shower, a couple of hours sleep, a change of clothes, and a spot of good Scottish hospitality. We have an invitation to a party, remember? We shall see what transpires then."

NCISNCISNCIS

Tony sat on the edge of his bed, comfortable in his sweats, staring out of the guest-house window, over the loch. His wet jeans had been whisked away by the owner of the guest house to be washed and tumbled. "Och, it's no problem wean!" Wean?

"What's on your mind?"

"Not a lot. This is the DiNozzo mind we're talking about, remember..." He picked up a small book that someone had left on the window-ledge. "Find your tartan..." He was silent for a few minutes, flicking through the pages, and Tim, knowing he was being deflected, wondered whether to return to the attack. Before he could, his friend grinned. "D'you know, the only one who hasn't got a tartan, is Ducky? Unless Mallard is a form of Malloch, in which case he's a McGregor..."

"A McGregor?"

"You wouldn't believe it... And Gibbs is a Buchanan..."

"So, how does a McGee get to wear a Scots tartan?"

"Well, McIrishman, if you spell it McGhee with an H, you're a member of the McKay clan."

"Hmm..." Tim said thoughtfully, "maybe it'd placate Abby if I bought a kilt to take back... since I've not got any photos of the monster... what?"

"Nothing... hey, even a DiNozzo can wear the tartan... my maternal grandma was a McAlpine... a cousin of the famous 'Concrete Bob', who built all the railroad –"

"Railway."

"Yeah, that – railway bridges on the West Highland Line..."

Tim shook his head.

"You'd better buy a kilt, then. Tony...it's not nothing. If there's one thing I've had to learn fast working with you and Gibbs, it's to read people! You know he expects us to read his mind! Ever since you woke up... in the car... it's like you want to say something, then you change your mind. Not like you to keep quiet."

Tony grimaced. "Ya got me." He turned to face away from the loch, and forced himself to look Tim in the eyes – not something he usually found so difficult. "OK," he said finally, "I figure you're owed a laugh or two... try this." He swung his feet up onto his bed, lay back on the pillows with his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling.

"The kid disappeared. I dived down... well, he'd be sinking, wouldn't he? The water was like gravy. Couldn't see a thing... couldn't find him. I was running out of air... couldn't go back without him... didn't think I'd have enough breath to get back to the surface..."

"Shit..." Tim whispered fervently.

"Then something pushed my legs. I thought it was a submerged log. It started pushing me back up towards the light... how could it do that?"

"I guess... uh... are you sure? I mean, it couldn't. Could it?"

Tony shrugged, which was hard with his hands behind his head. "You'd think not... all I know is, one minute I was diving down, next minute I'm going up, and there's the kid in front of my face, and then the pressure's gone off my legs." He rolled onto his side and looked over at Tim, lying on the other bed, regarding him seriously. "It... it didn't feel like a log." He pulled a face.

"What did it feel like?"

"I don't know... smooth... just not a log."

"Did you... see anything?"

"No..."

"I saw some turbulence... so did Gibbs."

"You did?"

"We both noticed it – he mentioned it when I was getting your jacket. There was... no explanation for it. Tony... you're thinking... what if... no, it couldn't be..."

"Nah... crazy to even think it... we've been listening to Ronnie McHarg too much."

Tim nodded. "Yeah... we should get some sleep."

"Yeah... we've got a party to go to..." They both closed their eyes, and thought of brown, swirling water, and portals to other dimensions.

NCISNCISNCIS

It had been less than 24 hours since their own arrival in the area, but it was clear to Tony that this party had been going on for days, and it showed no signs of abating any time soon. His lungs were protesting his encounter with the Loch, although Ducky had said he was fine, and he'd picked up a chill for good measure. No-one had warned him that it was interminably cool in Scotland when the sun began to drop in the sky. ("Cool" was Ducky's word. "Freezing my ass off" was Tony's actual description.)

Feeling sorry for his partner, Tim had brought Tony a wee dram of "the good stuff" to chase away the cold and help clear his respiratory system. He'd taken it gratefully, but it hadn't perked him up any. If anything, he felt more subdued than ever.

Wrapped up in a wool tartan blanket graciously provided by Hamish, he sat quietly in a corner of the big tent, watching the festivities and flipping through the poetry book he'd purchased from Ronnie McHarg. He smiled inwardly when he came to the poem that had inspired his purchase – "The Lady of the Loch". It reminded him so much of Abby. When he'd told Ronnie, who was there reading his stories to enthralled listeners about his favourite goth, the poet had instantly signed a second copy with a flourish, and given it to him for her. Tony felt certain she'd appreciate the gift.

As the night-dark raven's wing

Was the wild hair round her face;

Green her eyes as mountain ling,

Hands as delicate as lace.

Who her kin, she wouldnae tell,

In her dark halls under hill.

Ancient lore she guarded well,

Cannily used it, did nae ill.

But the ignorant fear the wise,

All they cannae understand.

"Witch!" and "Sorceress!" they cried,

"Burn her castle! Break her wand!"

Fleeing her burning home, the white witch had been trapped, the loch before her, the mob behind... Things would have gone ill, but as the baying crowd advanced, the water boiled and a graceful head rose high above them. The villagers waited to see the monster kill the witch, but Nessie stretched out her long neck, for the dark princess to climb on. They watched her ride away into the darkness on the creature's back, never to be seen again, and vainly ever after did the sick repent their foolishness, for there was no-one now to bring them healing...

Poor Abby. Always misunderstood, even in a fictional poem. Much like him. Perhaps that was why he'd always been so fond of her – in a way, they were kindred spirits, misfits who'd both found a place to belong at NCIS.

But Tony wasn't so sure he belonged anymore. Gibbs would never forgive him for driving Ziva away – of that, he felt certain. And now Tim would be the Probie again, and although things were good between them now, how long would it be before he turned on him too? Maybe it would be best if he just moved on? After all, he'd never stayed in one place for this long before, and it didn't look like he'd be moving up the ranks now, with this black mark on his record. Killing a Mossad officer didn't exactly win you brownie points with the Director, even if it was in self-defence.

No. It was decided. Once they got back to DC, he'd quietly turn in his resignation to Vance, pack up his things and point his Mustang up the highway. He'd figure out where he was going once he got there.

AN: We just skyped for 90 minutes, and realised the story's got another chapter in it...